Chapter 12—Simon
CHRISTA TAKES MY COFFEE away Monday morning because I put a screwdriver beside the escritoire. I haven’t touched either one yet.
She picks up the mug, carries it six feet across the room, and places it on a side table. “You’ve lost beverage privileges near my work.”
“I wasn’t going to spill it.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t guarantee that. You weren’t supposed to touch the screws either.”
I scoff. “I moved one screw.”
“You moved the same screw four times.”
“It was poorly situated.”
Christa looks over her shoulder at me. She’s wearing jeans and an old blue shirt with the sleeves rolled above her elbows. Her hair is twisted up, and a pencil has joined the clip holding it there. “The screw was exactly where I put it.”
“That explains the problem.”
She points toward the sofa. “You can have your coffee back when you learn remorse.”
I walk over and retrieve it myself, taking a defiant sip, but put it back on the table.
We’ve spent most of the weekend together, although not all of it in bed. Saturday morning, she went home to deal with mail, clothes, and the parts of her life that existed before us. She came back that evening with an overnight bag large enough to suggest optimism.
Yesterday, we ate lunch with Misty, Noah, and the children. Aya informed Christa that my bicycle-selection skills are excellent, while Harry told her I don’t know how to make pancakes shaped like dinosaurs. Gretel threw half a strawberry into my water. Christa took it all in stride.
It was a good day.
This morning has been good too, despite the fact that Jai is supposed to call at ten.
Christa returns to the escritoire and bends over the open writing surface. “Light.”
I set down my coffee and pick up the lamp she’s taught me how to hold. “See?” I say. “Useful.”
She snorts. “You’re trainable.”
“I’ve been told.”
“By Misty?”
“Frequently.”
Christa smiles as she examines the section she’s working on.
She spent two hours here Saturday before we went to dinner and another hour yesterday afternoon.
The escritoire is beginning to look different to me, although I doubt anyone else would see it yet.
I know which veneer had started lifting, where an old repair used the wrong adhesive, and which brass fitting has been removed for cleaning.
I also know better than to touch any of it without permission. Mostly.
Her phone rings on the worktable at nine fifty-seven.
We both look at it, and it’s Jai.
Christa straightens and wipes her fingers on the cloth beside her. “She’s early.”
“Three minutes. Ruthless.”
“She’s growing on you.”
I grin. “I liked her as soon as she told you to stop being civilized.”
Christa picks up the phone. “You’re still not allowed to hire her.”
“I have attorneys.”
“You have an ecosystem.”
“Accurate.”
She answers and puts Jai on speaker. “You’re early.”
“I know. I hope Simon can recover.”
“I’ll seek professional help,” I say.
Jai ignores me. “Celeste retained Marjorie Keene yesterday. Keene reviewed the trust documents and spoke with me this morning. Celeste signed the challenge forty minutes ago.”
Christa braces one hip against the worktable. “It’s filed?”
“Delivered to the trustees and acknowledged. They’ve placed an administrative hold on Tate’s succession certification.”
Christa closes her eyelids briefly, then opens them again. “Already?”
“Keene asked for immediate action because the qualifying pregnancy is approaching the certification threshold. The trustees agreed there was enough evidence to preserve the current voting arrangement while they investigate.”
I set the lamp down before Christa can accuse me of forgetting I’m holding it.
“What evidence did they get?” she asks.
“Your sworn statement that you aren’t pregnant, proof of your identity, the divorce petition and service date, Simon’s statement regarding Bellweather, and Celeste’s statement about what Judith told her after Tuesday’s visit.”
Christa walks to the sofa and sits on the arm. “What happens now?”
“The trustees sent Tate notice of the challenge about fifteen minutes ago. They require him to provide documentation for the pregnancy he submitted as qualifying.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I take it out. It’s Tate. Ballsy of him to call me. He probably assumes I’m with Christa.
Christa sees the name on the screen from across the room. “That’s impressive timing.”
I decline the call with a surge of satisfaction.
Jai continues. “The trustees have also instructed the physician or medical provider involved in the certification to verify the patient’s identity directly. They’re requiring proof of Tate’s paternity as part of the qualifying-parentage review.”
Christa nods. The requirement barely slows her down. “How soon?”
“They gave him five business days to agree to the testing procedure and arrange collection through an approved provider. The prenatal sample can be coordinated through Charla’s physician.”
“Will that hurt the baby?” Christa asks.
“No. The trust permits a noninvasive prenatal paternity test using maternal blood and a paternal sample. No invasive procedure is required.”
My phone vibrates again.
Tate once more. I decline again with a vicious smile, imagining him sweating bullets right about now.
Then a message appears.
Tate: Answer the phone.
Christa sees it. “He’s taking this well.”
I chuckle at her chipper tone. “I admire his restraint.”
Jai makes a sound that might be a laugh. “Don’t engage with him about the trust. Christa, the same applies to you. His attorney has already called my office.”
“Did he know about the challenge?”
“He does now. I spoke to him personally. He was considerably less enthusiastic about representing this as a reconciliation problem after I explained why the trustees have been contacted.”
Christa smiles. “I would have enjoyed that conversation.”
“I enjoyed it enough for both of us.”
Another message arrives on my phone.
Tate: What did you tell her?
I show Christa.
Her expression changes. She takes her own phone from the worktable and checks it.
“Nothing from him.”
I touch her arm. “Give him time.”
“He has my number.”
Jai clears her throat. “He also knows you have an attorney who answers hers.”
Christa considers that, then puts her phone down again. “He’s calling you because he thinks you did this.”
I shrug a shoulder. “He’s welcome to think that.”
Jai interrupts before I can enjoy the idea. “Simon, don’t bait him.”
I struggle to sound innocent. “I haven’t answered.”
She snorts. “Continue your excellent work.”
Christa laughs.
Jai tells us she’ll call again after Tate responds formally. Celeste has been instructed to direct any family contact about the trust to Keene, and Christa isn’t to discuss the challenge with Bernard or Judith if either of them calls.
“They still think I’m pregnant,” Christa says.
“Probably not for much longer. Tate’s notice identifies the basis of the challenge. Whether he tells his parents himself is his problem.”
“Good.”
Jai disconnects.
For a few seconds, Christa remains on the arm of the sofa, looking at her phone. I know better than to fill the silence for her. Then she stands and walks back to the escritoire.
“You’re going back to work?”
She pushes her ponytail off her shoulder. “I have a client who keeps interfering with my schedule.”
I chuckle. “I’ve heard he’s difficult.”
“His staff is lovely.”
“I’ll fire them.”
She rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t survive a week without Misty.”
I shake my head. “Three days, at least.”
“Optimistic.” She reaches for the lamp and hands it to me. I take my assigned position beside her.
My phone rings again.
Christa looks at my pocket. “He’s persistent.”
“Tate has many qualities.”
“None of them good,” she says with a hint of sourness. “You can answer if you want.”
I study her for a moment. “Do you want me to?”
Her attention returns to the veneer. “I want to know what he says when he realizes you’re not controlling me.”
That’s enough for me.
I set the lamp down, answer the call, and put the phone on speaker on the worktable between us. “Tate.”
“What the hell did you do?”
His voice blasts through the room. Christa glances up from the escritoire, and I lean against the edge of the table. “You’ll need to narrow that down.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Celeste filed a challenge against my trust certification.”
I don’t pretend to be surprised. “Then you should probably call Celeste.”
“I have called Celeste. She won’t answer me.” Something bangs on his end of the line. “You told her.”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“You’re confusing me with someone who owes you an explanation.”
Christa folds her arms and nods toward the phone.
Tate keeps going. “Christa wouldn’t even know how to do this. She didn’t know the trust language. You got involved, you found some attorney, and now you’ve dragged my sister into it.”
The assumption irritates me enough that I have to choose my answer carefully. “Christa already had an attorney.”
“For the divorce. This trust has nothing to do with her.”
Christa walks over and rests her fingertips on the table beside my phone. “It has quite a bit to do with me when you use my identity to qualify for it.”
He audibly exhales, and he sounds shaky when he asks, “Christa?”
“Hello, Tate.”
“What are you doing with him?”
She looks at me, and one eyebrow rises. “Discussing furniture.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I agree.”
He curses at her, and I rein in the impulse to take back the phone and shout at him. “You had no right to tell Celeste anything about my private life.”
Christa picks up the phone but leaves the speaker on, carrying it with her as she walks toward the windows. “Your private life stopped being private when Charla started introducing herself as me.”
He makes a dismissive sound. “She didn’t introduce herself as you.”
“She did. Don’t bother to deny it. You let your parents believe she was me on Tuesday.”
“That was one conversation.” His voice wobbles with outrage.
“She did the same thing at Bellweather Wednesday.”
He sounds offended. “Nobody asked for identification at Bellweather. They made an assumption.”